Today is cloudy and humid. The air is still. Scattered thunder storms are predicted. I have an errand which I may skip as the roads will probably be filled with vacationers looking for diversions, reasons to leave their small hotel rooms and cottages. I, however, don’t need a diversion. I have books to read. I also have weird chores I can do, the sort tackled in times of boredom, chores like hunting down expired can goods. That’s always exciting, think tongue in cheek here, a whimsical exaggeration.

When I was a kid, the floor of my closet was piled high with shoes, boots and whatever else needed a home. I’d have to pull out what was there to find what I needed. After I did, I’d just put the pile back. It never occurred to me to sort the pile. Seriously, why would I? It didn’t pain my sensibilities. My bureau drawers were neatish, not the bovine neat but neat meaning close to organized and tidy. My mother did that as she put the laundry away.

In my bedroom in Ghana, I had a chifforobe, an armoire, as I had no closet. It was against one wall. One side of it was for hanging my clothes while the other side had shelves. It was my only storage. It was always neat. In my shower room outside, I used the windowsill as a shelf for my soap, shampoo and a sort of loofah. The window had a permanent shutter so you couldn’t see out, but even better, no one could see in. The shutter was green. The shower room was concrete.

In Accra, I always stayed at the Peace Corp hostel. It was only 50 pesewas a night with breakfast. The women slept downstairs. Breakfast was coffee, cereal, eggs and toast. I remember the plates were colored plastic and many had scratches and were faded. I can still picture the bedroom and the common room where we ate breakfast and socialized. It is odd what our memory drawers hold.

When I traveled, it was on the cheap. Every Peace Corps volunteer travels on the cheap. Some countries had hostels. I remember the one in Niamey. It was comfortable and decorated with Nigerian blankets and baskets. Niger just had a coup. I watched the news and films of the uprising in Niamey. I remember a quiet Niamey with camels on the roads, women washing clothes at the river and French shops with silver services in the window. It is no longer the Niamey my memory drawers keep safe.

When I went back to Ghana, everything physical had changed. Accra was huge. I saw only a few places exactly as I remembered them, but that is what happens in time. Bolga had spread, gotten bigger, but it didn’t matter. I felt the warmth of the Ghanaians in Bolga and heard all their greetings. I felt at home, the same sorts of feelings I had felt so many years ago. Sometimes time does stand still.

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